Poem By gershon hepner
Forsaken, after many foreskins bought her,
indignant, naturally—she was the monarch’s daughter—
she criticized the way her husband danced
when coming to Jerusalem, entranced,
it seemed, more by the girls with lovely legs,
that prancing, offered him far better sex
that she, a monarch’s daughter, was prepared
to offer to this jumped-up shepherd who
moved like a dromedary from the zoo
where Saul had taken her when she was young,
forgetting that the sight of beasts well hung
can have a bad effect on daughters’ minds
before they are aware that their behinds
arouse young men whom glutei attract,
and prove it to them, being stiffly stacked.
Because she wouldn’t tolerate ménages
he threw her out and then bestowed his largesse
on Bathsheba who said that he was free
to lie with Abishag, a double D.
He wrote a Psalm about it––it was lost
soon after Michal from his bed was tossed.
She found it and I think she tore it up,
before he wrote the one about the cup
that always runneth over––twenty-third––
which means, of course, he had the final word.